Merging

My latest best friend Etta left a message that she needed me to take her to the airport early the next morning. As well as my aversion to driving, I hated disappointing people. Therefore, I found it difficult to say no, especially when I thought someone needed me and had taken the opportunity to befriend me. Others who understand friendships much better than I do know there are two favors that will test any friendship: first, helping a friend move, and second, taking a friend to the airport.

Etta’s flight was at six o’clock in the next morning. She had just learned her grandmother passed away and the funeral in Denver was in two days. The airport was twenty-five miles from where I lived. Both the highway and the service road had major road construction underway, ten miles at the beginning of the trip and then the last five miles once you exit the freeway. The trip required driving in the pitch black.

I have always hated driving. I am sure I was one of only a few teenagers who did not want to get her driver’s license. My parents insisted that I take Drivers’ Education at the high school and then take the test for my license. I complied. Three weeks after getting my license, I turned onto the road that led to my house, pulled the steering wheel too hard, and slammed into a telephone pole. Airbags were not installed in cars back in the 1970s, so I was lucky that the extent of my injuries was only a broken nose. For the next five decades, I was a white-knuckle driver.

Over time, I limited the scope of my driving to a ten-mile radius, remaining on a couple of major roads to get to the grocery store, the gym, and my job. If I couldn’t get to my destination in that limited capacity, I took the bus or called a taxi and now ride share services. I thought about the dilemma for a while before calling. I knew that I could not grant my new best friend’s request. I swallowed my reticence, picked up the phone and called her. When she answered, I told her the following story:

The decision I made to get on highway that night is so baffling to me. I don’t exactly when the fog rolled in or when the sky fell. I did not notice it when I left my house and walked over to my car. I sensed the grey, but I did not see it. Well, not at first. As soon as I merged onto the freeway, my windows fogged up. Not just my windshield, but my side mirrors and door windows. I was totally enveloped. I was unable to see and became disoriented. I had to force my clenched right hand from the steering wheel and fumbled on the dashboard for the defroster button.

It was a short entrance ramp and there was no shoulder. I had to merge, but could not see anything even when the lightening flashed and illuminated the sky. I heard a horn blare as something moved passed me. I heard my knuckles crack under the strain of my hands squeezed tightly on the wheel. I had no choice, I had to merge onto the highway. I took a deep breath and pressed down on the gas pedal. I had anticipated the sound of crushing metal, but all I heard were squealing tires and the clash of thunder.

Just above my sight line, a small spot formed on the translucent film that covered the windshield. The defroster had finally engaged. I leaned forward and squinted through the growing clear bubble, cut off by the intermittent windshield wipers—the fog still thick inside my car. I saw defused taillights in front of me, I turned on my right turn signal, intent on getting off at the next exit. I felt lights flash over my shoulder and hoped it was a kind driver (if there even is such a person) telling me I could move over to the exit ramp, or maybe it was the lightening, but I swung the steering wheel right and somehow exited the highway. I made it to the traffic light, which thankfully was red, and was able to open my windows. It was if all the fog, which had been inside my car, suddenly escaped as quickly as it had enveloped me. The light turned green and somehow, I made my way home.

I had been less than two miles from my home, but I sat in my driveway as if I had just returned from a long journey. I went inside and took a hot shower; then I made myself a cup of tea. Grateful to be in the comfort and safety of my home, I turned on the television to watch the 11:00 p.m. news.

“It appears the car was trying to avoid another car merging into traffic,” the reporter said. The camera panned over to a small blue car upside down on the median. “The driver was declared dead on the scene,” the reporter said.

I had just been at that very spot, the spot where I had blindly merged into traffic. I felt a lump form in my throat and my hands began to shake. Could it have been me? I wondered. Did anyone witness what had happened? I did not leave my house for the next three days. I waited for the knock on the door from the police to come and confront me. They never came. I finally convinced myself that I had nothing to do with the fatal car crash. If I had, the drivers from other cars on the road would have reported me—assuming they could make out the make and model of my car, not to mention my license plate. A lot of time has passed, but I still have a lingering feeling that maybe I was responsible.

I have no regrets about the story I told Etta. She now understood why I was such a nervous driver and told me she would make other arrangements, which is just what I wanted her to do. I don’t know how long my latest best friend will be my friend, not after hearing that story. A story that was a total fabrication…well mostly.